


Trying to Break Through

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotionally Constipated Derek, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:00:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2368445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, it’s just sex.</p><p>It’s good sex – Derek comes every time, Stiles comes every time, says things like “whoa,” and “do that again, yeah, yeah, like that, fuck,” – but still: it’s just sex. They don’t speak much, at first. They don’t kiss as much as bite down on each other’s bottom lips and breathe heavily into each other’s mouths when they’re about to blow their load. Derek is not sure if it qualifies as kissing at all. He’s not sure if he wants it to.</p><p>(He’s not sure why he wants it to.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trying to Break Through

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative summary: "I CAN'T TELL U THAT I LOVE U BUT I CAN PUT MY PEEN IN UR BUTT"

At first, it’s just sex.

It’s good sex – Derek comes every time, Stiles comes every time, says things like “whoa,” and “do that again, yeah, yeah, like that, fuck,” – but still: it’s just sex. They don’t speak much, at first. They don’t kiss as much as bite down on each other’s bottom lips and breathe heavily into each other’s mouths when they’re about to blow their load. Derek is not sure if it qualifies as kissing at all. He’s not sure if he wants it to.

(He’s not sure why he wants it to.)

 

* * *

 

The first time it happens is after Mexico. Hurried handjobs in the dark, hot sharp gasps for air, Stiles’ fingers browsing greedily through Derek’s hair. Derek can’t remember how exactly they ended up like that, but he remembers how right it felt, Stiles pressed up against him all sharp angles and rudimentary eagerness, the shape and weight of his dick an unfamiliar familiarity in Derek’s hand.

During the second time it happens, Stiles asks, “Hey, you’d never… last time, that was your first time with another guy, wasn’t it?” and Derek tenses up.

“I didn’t mean it like _that_ ,” Stiles says. “I mean, it’s not like I could tell or anything. And it’s not like I’m an inexhaustible resource of buttsex knowledge either, I was just. Kind of assuming.”

“Well, you kind of assumed correctly,” Derek says tersely, and when Stiles touches him again, warm callused hands smoothing up his naked chest and coming to rest on his shoulders, it makes him shiver but it doesn’t take away the vague sense of unease, embarrassment, that’s stirring low in his stomach.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” Stiles murmurs against his mouth as he moves into Derek’s lap, pushing him back until they’re horizontal on the bed. Stiles is straddling him, mouthing at his jawline already, thumb brushing against Derek’s earlobe. Another shiver. “I’m just saying, y’know, we could,” Stiles continues, more quietly, his exhale caressing the side of Derek’s face, another shiver— “you know, take it slow.”

They don’t. Derek sinks his fingers into Stiles’ hair and starts pressing long open-mouthed kisses to the soft pliant skin of his throat while Stiles rolls their hips together and laughs lowly, breathily, and then Stiles palms Derek through his jeans until he’s hard and aching.

“Can I,” Stiles says, eyes on Derek’s, big dark eyes, deep eyes, earnest eyes, how had Derek never consciously registered the length of his eyelashes before? “I’ve always kind of wanted to, uh,” Stiles says, and Derek nods, says, “Sure.”

As Stiles fumbles with his fly, he wonders if Stiles has always-kind-of-wanted-to with _him_ or just in general.

Stiles’ hand feels warm and firm on Derek’s hip. He works Derek to full hardness with his other hand before settling between his thighs and starting to lick and suck experimentally, fingers curled around the base of Derek’s dick as he tests how much he can take into his mouth. Tiny pulses of preliminary pleasure spark their way up Derek’s spine at every move Stiles makes; dragging his tongue across the head, fitting his lips around it, sucking it down, pressing two fingers to his own cheek to trace the contours of Derek’s dick in there.

Derek doesn’t touch, watches silently from where he’s leaning back on his elbows. He can’t help but take a sharp breath when Stiles drags the tip of his nose down the underside of his dick. Stiles sends a coy smile up at him and does it again.

Once he has figured out the basic mechanics, Stiles holds Derek’s hips down with both hands – such warm firm hands – and continues with just his mouth and his tongue. He takes his time, is sloppy and a little clumsy and completely unapologetic about it, and Derek closes his eyes and curls and uncurls his fingers and allows himself to believe, for the duration of this moment at least, that Stiles had always-kind-of-wanted-to with _him_.

 

* * *

 

Stiles may not be an inexhaustible source of sexual knowledge, but he’s pretty inexhaustible in other ways. “God, you’re like a puppy,” Derek tells him during the fifth or sixth time it happens, still trying to catch his breath when Stiles is already growing restless again, pressing up against him, fondling Derek’s spent dick speculatively.

Stiles barks out a laugh. “Says the one who can turn into an actual _wolf_ these days,” he says, moving onto all fours so that he’s hovering over Derek with one knee on either side of Derek’s thighs, and starts touching himself. He keeps remarkably quiet aside from the occasional noise making it past his lips, and Derek drinks those noises in, basks in the filthy toe-curling sound of Stiles’ short sure strokes. The tip of his dick is sliding slickly through the mess of their combined come on Derek’s stomach, and after a while Stiles bites down on his bottom lip and tilts his head back, eyes closed, hand moving faster, the long mole-dotted line of his throat a stomach-churning view.

 

After Stiles has tugged his jeans back on and done some sort of elaborate key-twirl by way of goodbye, Derek finds himself wondering if maybe that’s what this is about. Maybe it’s not about the leather jacket and the muscle car, his biceps and his stubble beard. Maybe it’s about the newfound novelty of him, the way Scott looks at him (looks _up to_ him) these days, the packs that have come to pay their respects not only to the true alpha of Beacon Hills but also, equally, to he who inherited Talia Hale’s shape-shifting ability. Maybe Peter was right; maybe everything _is_ about power.

It’s a train of thought that isn’t fair on Stiles, Derek knows that, but still he can’t shake it. Eventually, hours past midnight, he gets out of bed and goes for a run. He shifts halfway through, leaves his running shoes and tracksuit near the edge of the preserve and runs runs runs on four paws, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth, the wind ruffling his fur and howling in his ears. He’s yearning to howl with it, the urge is itching in his chest, clawing at his ribcage, but he can’t. Not without waking the pack and calling Scott to him for no reason. He settles for emitting a series of low growls as he trots through the woods, listens to the wildlife scatter before him.

By the time he gets back to his pile of clothes, the sun is coming up. He jogs home, crawls under the covers and sleeps till midday.

 

* * *

 

He spends most of his days at his family’s vault or the animal clinic, sifting through file cabinets and attempting to chip away at Deaton’s air of secrecy in order to find out more about everything. Kate’s inexplicable powerfulness, his mastering of the full shift, the loss and restoration of his supernatural abilities, but also: Berserker lore, banshee myths, the true alpha phenomenon. All of it. How it all happened, what it all means.

“You’d make a good student,” Deaton tells Derek enigmatically, without specifying whether he’s hinting at emissary training or enrolling in college. Derek doesn’t respond, pulls open another drawer full of ancient documents and dusty books.

Stiles has taken to texting him throughout the day, a little stream-of-consciousness narrative of the pack’s adventures at school rendered in impeccable grammar, punctuation and spelling irreconcilable with the speed at which the messages succeed one another. He sends pictures of his and Scott’s after-school milkshakes and selfies of him and Malia doing homework. Derek figures it’s their way of staying in touch with him, of showing him he truly belongs now. He appreciates it. He keeps his phone with him at all times.

 

He used to spend most of his evenings alone, reading, watching Netflix, doing weight training. Now he spends most of his evenings waiting for Stiles to text— not the next installment in the ongoing tale of Malia’s struggle with math, but the other kind of text. **You home?** or, more bluntly, **Can I come over?** or, straight to the point, **I wish your dick was in my mouth**. Stiles doesn’t come over every evening ( **I’d much rather be doing you than homework right now** ) but he does text almost every evening ( **Quick, send me a picture of you fingering yourself, I need it for reasons** ; a snapshot of his dick, hard, head shiny with precome, accompanied by the words **Thinking of you** ). It’s difficult for Derek to concentrate on his book or his TV show when his phone is right there, screen lighting up intermittently. Still, he never turns it off, reads every message straight away.

(Sometimes Stiles stays a while after they’ve jerked or sucked each other off, slumping against Derek’s shoulder all warm and sated, pressing his lips to Derek’s skin. Sometimes they’re in bed when this happens and Stiles molds them in such a way that Derek is lying on his back with his arm around Stiles, who is curled into his side, half on top of him. Last week they went on a post-coital midnight run to the McDonalds drive-through, Stiles’ hand tauntingly sliding up the inside of Derek’s thigh as he ordered. Derek is not sure what it means. If it means anything at all.)

 

* * *

 

For the moment, their most pressing issue is figuring out what Parrish is. The bestiary left Lydia no wiser and Stiles’ literature search is coming up empty. Derek hasn’t found anything in the vault, and so far Deaton’s archive has been of no help either.

“Maybe we should try to come up with something else,” Scott says pensively. “You know, think outside the—”

“We’re going to set him on fire,” Stiles announces as he enters the exam room with Parrish in his wake.

His arrival hits Derek like a kick to the chest. The pack came to the clinic straight out of school, collectively cloaked in the scent of lacrosse, grass and earth and salt. Stiles’ cheeks are still flushed, his hair soft and mussed up; there’s a smudge of mud on his cheekbone and Derek wants to rub it away, wants to touch him. Wants to back Stiles up against the wall and take his face between his hands and lean in and kiss him.

They don’t see each other like this – in broad daylight, with others present – often, and Derek is struck by the way Stiles looks, away from the dimly lit sanctum of his apartment. Suddenly, acutely, everything that happens in there seems less real somehow, a dream, a distant memory, even though it was less than sixteen hours ago that Stiles was spread out across his bed, writhing, gasping, going, “Use your fingers, use your fingers, use— oh, _fuck_ , yeah, yeah, Derek, like—”

“You cannot be serious,” Scott says. He looks shocked, offended, by Stiles’ suggestion alone.

“Why not?” Stiles says. “We know he’ll survive it, probably, and besides his name showing up on the Deadpool the fire thing is the only clue we have as to what particular brand of supernatural he might be. I for one can’t believe we’ve never considered this before.”

“I can’t believe we’re considering this _at all_ ,” Kira says, wide-eyed.

“I like the plan,” Malia says from where she’s sitting on the exam table with her legs swinging back and forth. “Do I get to light the fuse?”

“I guess it could work,” Lydia says, tapping her chin.

Scott and Kira say, “ _Guys_.”

“Maybe we should ask Jordan what he thinks,” Deaton interjects. “Jordan?”

Parrish shrugs. “I’m fine with it, really. It didn’t hurt much the first time, and if it might get us anywhere I think it’s worth a try.”

“See?” Stiles says, throwing an arm around Parrish and grinning. “I knew there was a reason why you were my favorite deputy.”

The delicate lines of his face, the dirt on his cheek, the glint in his eyes, the way his long thin fingers curl around the curve of Parrish’s shoulder, the same long thin fingers that coaxed an orgasm out of Derek just last night— it’s too much. Derek looks away.

“Derek?” Deaton says.

“I’m with Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles smiles at him, widely.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, setting Parrish on fire doesn’t get them anywhere either, but it’s strangely… fun. The proceedings take place in the Stilinskis’ backyard, the plastic kiddie pool Scott and Stiles used to play in standing by, filled with water. Sheriff Stilinski provides a jerry can of gasoline. Malia does get to light the fuse, much to her absolute delight, and when she laughs she reminds Derek of Laura so much that he has to leave for a while.

He goes to the toilet, goes to get a glass of water from the kitchen. He watches the happenings in the yard through the window. The sound of Malia’s laughter carries through the glass even when he slackens his wolf hearing as much as possible. He bites back a smile, sighs, turns around to find Stiles hovering in the doorway.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “It’s nothing.”

“Fire,” Stiles says, slapping his forehead. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m sorry, we should’ve—”

“No,” Derek interrupts him. “That’s not it.” It isn’t, and he knows he wouldn’t be able to explain to Stiles why not. Why fire doesn’t bother him, why the memory of his dead family doesn’t gnaw at him the way it used to. He can’t explain how talking to his mother freed something up in his chest, can’t explain how inheriting the full shift filled that space with something much different from rage and grief. Something like peace. “It’s Malia.”

“Malia,” Stiles echoes carefully. “Okay. That makes sense.” He’s looking down, fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie. “She and I broke up,” he says, looking Derek in the eye. “There’s nothing going on between us anymore. Not like that, anyway.”

“I know,” Derek says; he hasn’t smelled Malia on Stiles or vice versa in ages, not since Mexico. “She reminds me of Laura.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. Then, “Oh, okay, yeah, wow, never mind. I guess that makes more sense. Right.” He looks at his sleeve again.

“Right,” Derek says, stomping down on the pinprick of hope in his chest that wants so badly to believe that Stiles thinks the thought of Malia and him together might bother Derek because—

He stomps down on it.

“By the way, just a heads-up, I think Scott is starting to suspect something,” Stiles says. “It’s not like he would bring it up in front of the rest of the pack, of course, you don’t have to worry about that, but I guess there’s only so much jizzing on each other we can do before the, y’know, olfactory evidence can’t be scrubbed off anymore.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, contemplating it, their scents mingling to the point of near-inextricability, the way Scott and Allison were linked by scent, the way Scott and Stiles are linked. Contemplates no longer being able to tell where his scent ends and Stiles’ begins.

“Okay,” Stiles says. He pushes his hands into his pockets. “I’m gonna go back outside. Our Parrish steak should be well-done by now.”

“Sure,” Derek says, watching him leave.

 

* * *

 

The first time Stiles pulls a box of condoms out of his bag, Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “What, better late than never?” he deadpans. “You do know that STDs are transmittable through oral sex as well, right?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m not asking for a safe sex talk here, big guy,” he says, flicking a condom at Derek’s chest. “I’m asking you to put your dick in me.”

 

Fucking Stiles is like nothing Derek has ever experienced before. It couldn’t be more unlike his first time with a woman, in the dark, his heart racing, her laughter a touch too harsh to make him feel at ease. With Stiles it’s simple, comfortable. They leave the lights on and take their time, Stiles cracking jokes and chattering away but growing increasingly hoarse and monosyllabic with every next finger Derek works into him.

By the time Derek is sinking into Stiles ever so slowly, biceps quivering, Stiles is begging for him to move faster, but Derek can’t, he can’t, it’s too tight, too close, too much too soon. He barely manages a few thrusts before he has to hold still again, gasping, “Stiles,” and blindly grasping for one of Stiles’ hands.

“That was pretty intense,” Stiles murmurs into the pillow afterward, and Derek says, “Yeah,” and rests his cheek against the damp skin between Stiles’ shoulder blades and closes his eyes for a moment.

 

The first time they do it the other way around they’re on the couch, Derek straddling Stiles’ lap. Earlier Stiles was jerking off beneath him, but now he’s just looking on reverently as Derek twists his fingers deeper into himself. One of Stiles’ hands is curled around his hip to keep him steady, but Stiles is not touching him in any other way, not touching himself anymore, just looking, open-mouthed, face flushed, and there’s something about the look in his eyes that makes a rush of heat surge through Derek’s stomach.

Impulsively, he says, “You should grab a— they’re right there, put one on,” and Stiles’ eyes go wide as he nods.

It feels strange, overwhelming, intimate. Derek presses his forehead to Stiles’ shoulder and waits for his body to adjust to Stiles, which takes a while. When he lifts his head again Stiles still has the same look on his face, the slack-jawed look of admiration and ill-contained bliss, and it’s enough to make Derek huff out a shaky laugh, to make him tip Stiles’ head back and kiss him slowly, softly, as they rock together.

 

* * *

 

“Derek,” Stiles says. “You should shift so I can give you belly rubs.”

Derek says, “Stop.”

“Come on, dude, don’t even try and tell me you don’t like belly rubs. Everybody likes belly rubs,” Stiles says, leaning back in his chair and scratching his stomach as though to emphasize his point.

“Do your homework,” Derek says. He uncaps his marker.

“Oh! You found something?” Stiles asks, leaning in again.

“Do your homework,” Derek says as he highlights a passage in his book. “It’s just a throwaway line about pyro-creatures. Could be a clue. Could be nothing.”

“Could be _everything_ ,” Stiles says. “My money’s on dragons. Parrish is a dragon, I know it for sure.”

Derek shakes his head. “Dragons—”

“Yeah, yeah, nonsense, there hasn’t been a dragon in these parts for a thousand years, whatever,” Stiles says. “Shun the non-believer! I’m telling you, he’s a dragon.”

“I’m _telling_ you, that wouldn’t make sense.”

“I’m _telling_ you, it doesn’t make sense that you don’t like belly rubs.”

“I never said I don’t like belly rubs,” Derek says. “Do your homework. God.”

“Ugh, fine,” Stiles says, leaning back in his chair again and pulling his laptop toward him. “Can I just—” He lifts up his feet, places them in Derek’s lap. “Thanks.”

Derek contemplates it, shifting for Stiles. He thinks about chasing Stiles around the loft, nipping playfully at his hands, nudging his nose against the backs of Stiles’ knees, Stiles breathless with laughter. Thinks about herding him to the bed and shifting back mid-leap and pinning Stiles’ wrists above his head and kissing him.

“Would you stop harassing me about belly rubs if I gave in and let you give me one?” Derek asks. “Just once?”

“Probably not, no,” Stiles says without looking up from his laptop screen. “Why?”

“You’re impossible,” Derek tells him, wrapping one hand around Stiles’ socked foot as he flips the page with the other.

(That night he dreams about a tiny cabin, all wooden beams and simple furniture. Derek is curled up in front of the hearth, shifted, with his nose resting on his paws and the tip of his tail curled around it. He’s got his eyes closed but he can sense Stiles’ presence everywhere, in the heat of the fire, the crackling of the flames, the smell of the snow that’s falling softly outside. He can’t see Stiles but he knows that he’s right there.)

 

* * *

 

“You saw your mother, right?” Stiles asks him one night, after they’ve fucked and showered and somehow ended up in Derek’s bed again, naked except for their underwear, feet under the covers. Stiles is nestled into Derek’s side, emanating that warm scent of satiation and mild complacence Derek has grown to look forward to smelling on him after sex. “With the whole claws thing? What was that like?”

Derek thinks about it. “Therapeutic,” he says eventually.

Stiles doesn’t respond. After a while, Derek glances down. Stiles has a look on his face that he gets sometimes when he thinks Derek isn’t watching— a look that makes Derek wonder what he’ll be like a couple of years from now, when the dust of his turbulent teenage years has settled. If Stiles will continue using sarcasm and exuberance as his primary defense mechanisms or if he’ll be quieter, stiller, more serious.

It’s a look that makes him seem older. It makes him look like someone who watched his mother die, someone who has been through his fair share of terror and trauma. It’s a look he doesn’t get often, and Derek wonders if it raises its head from time to time and then disappears again for a while or if it’s always there, lurking right below the surface of Stiles’ quick smile and sharp jokes, coiled and ready to strike whenever he lets his guard down.

“I talked to her,” Derek says. “I wouldn’t be able to tell you the specifics of it. It’s one of those things…”

Stiles nods. “Wolf magic,” he says, pulling one of Derek’s hands toward him and threading their fingers together.

“Wolf magic,” Derek affirms. “It’s not like— she didn’t speak to me from the afterlife, that’s not the way it works.”

Stiles hums, nods again. He’s not looking at Derek anymore but past him, at the wall, and Derek tells him more about the moment with his mother, and then, when Stiles keeps quiet, stays wrapped around him, doesn’t let go of his hand, Derek tells him more. He tells Stiles about his mother, the kind of person she was; tells him about Laura and Cora, the way they used to team up against him, drive him so mad he would lose control and wolf out. He tells Stiles about Paige— the real story, not the one he knows Stiles has heard from Peter. He talks until his mouth runs dry and Stiles is breathing slowly, deeply, shifting even closer to Derek in his sleep.

 

 **What should I tell my dad if he asks me where I’ve been all night?** Stiles texts him the next morning, an hour after leaving. He’d jolted awake around six and started going, “Fuck fuck fuck,” under his breath as he scrambled around the apartment to gather his clothes, Derek watching him from under the covers, half-asleep and privately amused. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” Stiles told him, but Derek was already too far gone to reply, had slipped into a vague dream in which Stiles leaned over him and gently kissed him goodbye.

 **Late night study session with Scott?** Derek suggests, and Stiles sends back **Hah** and then nothing for a couple of hours.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, so I’ve been looking at universities,” Stiles says. “Y’know, just because. Would it be cool if I had some, like, information packages and stuff delivered to your address? I don’t want my dad to intercept them and get all preemptively empty-nest-syndromed, that’s all.”

“Sure,” Derek says, because why not.

When Stiles’ mail arrives, Derek notices a booklet from the Department of History at Beacon Hills University among the pile. He touches the laminated cover, picks the booklet up, puts it down again. Eventually he ends up leafing through it, looking at the list of course codes, the pictures of stately buildings and smiling students.

“I didn’t think you would be interested in studying History,” he can’t help but say to Stiles the next time Stiles comes over.

“History?” Stiles says, with a vacant look. “That’s weird. I guess I must’ve hit a wrong button somewhere. Anyway, want a blowjob?”

After Stiles leaves that evening, Derek finds the booklet on his nightstand. He picks it up again, strokes the laminated cover.

 

* * *

 

 **My dad’s on night shift tonight** , Stiles texts Derek, and that’s how it happens that they’re asleep in Derek’s bed together when the alarm starts blaring.

Derek rolls off the mattress and jumps to his feet growling. “Get under the bed,” he hisses at Stiles through his fangs. “Quick.”

“Dude,” Stiles says, voice sleep-rough. “I’m not some sort of damsel in distress, I don’t need to hide under the bed while you save me from the bad guys.”

But the hair at the back of Derek’s neck is standing up and he feels an overpowering urge to slip into his other skin, which means something is wrong. He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he knows it. “Stiles,” he says. “Please.”

“Okay, okay,” Stiles says, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “I’ll see if I can find a baseball bat somewhere. Don’t get all worked up about it, it’s probably just a false ala—”

The front door explodes with a loud bang.

“Oh, shit,” Stiles says as he scrambles out of bed, looking around wildly, but Derek is already focused on the men streaming into the loft through the cloud of dust and wood splinters, one two three four. He doesn’t recognize their scents, can’t smell any of them, actually, which means they must be masking their scents, which means they must be werewolves. He lets his eyes flash, flicks out his claws, and attacks.

The first two go down easily enough, but the third one puts up a fight, manages to rake his claws down Derek’s throat and draw blood before Derek can knock him out. He lurches for the last man standing, who is smaller than the others, younger, more a boy than a man. The boy yields like a rag doll when Derek grabs hold of him— he’s human, Derek realizes, and hesitates for a second.

“I was hoping to get this up close and personal with you, Mr. Hale,” the boy says, and jams something into the center of Derek’s chest, something sharp that sets all his veins on fire at once, and Derek howls as he passes out.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, please don’t freak out too much, but they’ve found out about our dirty little secret,” is the very first thing Stiles tells Derek when he comes to. “All of them. I’d say I’m sorry, but it’s kind of mostly your fault because I probably would’ve been able to come up with a believable excuse for being half-naked at your place at three in the morning if I hadn’t been so busy worrying about you dying, _again_. Your skin went all gray and your whole body was convulsing and you were frothing at the mouth and— but anyway, Scott said he knew already, figured it out a long time ago, so—”

“’m your dirty little secret,” Derek mumbles. The lights in Deaton’s clinic are way too bright; it feels like a thousand tiny needles are being driven into his brain. He closes his eyes again.

“ _I_ am _your_ dirty little secret,” Stiles says pointedly. “Right?”

“Wrong,” Derek manages, but he doesn’t have the strength to say anything else or open his eyes again, so he wiggles his fingers until Stiles gets the hint and touches them.

“God, you’re infuriating,” Stiles says. “Get some rest, big guy. We’ll talk when you’re not half dead. _Again_.”

Fair enough, Derek thinks blurrily, and he drifts off again.

 

The next time he wakes up, Scott is in the room as well.

“Dude, I smelled it on you weeks ago,” Scott is saying. “I was waiting for you two to be ready to tell me.”

“I was waiting for _him_ to be ready to tell _me_ ,” Stiles says hotly. “God. Unbelievable. Of fucking course it had to take yet another near-death experience to—”

Derek closes his eyes again, but Scott has already caught his gaze. “Hey,” he says, stepping closer to the exam table Derek is lying on. It’s familiar territory by now. “How are you feeling?”

Derek moves his fingers, his toes, his head. “Alive,” he says.

“Good,” Scott says, smiling.

Derek lets his eyes drift shut again, but Stiles prods him in the ribs with a finger, hard. “You do _not_ get to peace out on this conversation again,” he says. “Deaton said the serum should be out of your system by now, so you do not get to fake unconsciousness.”

Derek blinks his eyes open again, looks Stiles up and down. He seems okay, unharmed. “You didn’t get hurt,” Derek half-asks, half-states, too tired to attempt intonation.

“Yeah, I knocked that dude out with a frying pan right after you passed out,” Stiles says. “Thanks for taking out the werewolves first, buddy. A+ snap decisions right there.”

“Are they,” Derek manages.

“We’ve dealt with them,” Scott says.

“Scott,” Derek says. “You didn’t—”

“I said we’ve dealt with them,” Scott says shortly.

“They were bad news, man,” Stiles says. “Seriously bad news. They were creepy werewolf scientists.”

“They weren’t _scientists_ ,” Scott says.

“The one I knocked out with a frying pan was!” Stiles protests. “They were going to kidnap you to find out what makes the full shift possible. Like, genes and shit. I’m pretty sure they were planning to operate on your brain.”

“You’ve been reading too much science fiction,” Scott says.

“Anyway,” Stiles says, giving Scott a pointed look before redirecting his gaze at Derek, “it’s a good thing I was there to save your incapacitated ass from the baddies. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Scott clears his throat demonstratively. “It’s a good thing you remembered to howl,” he tells Derek. “Malia said to tell you to invite us over earlier next time so she’ll get to take someone down as well.”

“For some reason she seems to think interrogating isn’t nearly as much fun,” Stiles adds.

Derek’s mind is reeling. He closes his eyes again.

“Before you go back to sleep, I just want to stress that everyone knows we’re Together now, that’s Together with a capital T, for your information, and now that the cat’s out of the bag anyway I’m gonna tell my dad as well,” Stiles says. “In fact, I’m gonna go call him and tell him right now. He’s probably gonna invite you over for a barbecue or something, so prepare yourself.”

“He invites me over for a barbecue every time I see him,” Derek mumbles.

“Yeah, well, this time he’s definitely gonna hold you to it,” Stiles says, pulling his phone from his pocket.

(“Hey, try— try not to hurt him, okay?” Scott says once they’re alone. Derek says nothing. Scott adds, “I said the same thing to him about you.”

“Really?” Derek says. “What did he say?”

Scott grimaces, smiles. “He said ‘don’t worry, we always use plenty of lube’.”)

 

* * *

 

“I had this dream once,” Derek says over breakfast one morning. “We were up in the mountains, in a cabin. It was snowing. I was shifted—”

“Was I giving you belly rubs?” Stiles interrupts him.

“You’re ruining the moment,” Derek says pointedly, reaching for his coffee. “What if I was trying to tell you something important?”

“It can’t be that important if there were no belly rubs involved,” Stiles says. “Belly rubs should always be involved. In everything.”

“You sound like a kid,” Derek says. “Which is profoundly disturbing to me in many ways.”

Stiles looks up from the newspaper. “Yeah?” he says around a mouthful of toast.

“Yeah.”

Stiles swallows his bite. “That’s ’cause you wanna bang me after breakfast, right?” he says.

Derek pulls a face. “Yes, Stiles, it is.”

“Good,” Stiles says. “Just so we’re clear. You wanna have sex with me.”

“Yes,” Derek says. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve established that by now.”

“It’s nice to hear you say it,” Stiles says. “It’s nice to say it. You wanna have _sex_ with me.”

“I do want to have sex with you.”

“You wanna fuck me.”

“Maybe I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Very nice idea. I’ll take it under consideration and report back to you soon.” He chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “So basically, you want us to sleep together.”

“Yeah.”

“Want us to bonk.”

Derek sighs. “Maybe I want to make love to you,” he says, and the phrase feels foreign on his tongue but not unpleasant.

“Really,” Stiles says, eyes bright. “Does that mean you wanna take me for a ride on your disco stick?”

“Oh my God,” Derek says. “Never mind, all right. You are _impossible_.”

“Yeah, you too,” Stiles says, idly stroking Derek’s forearm as he turns back to his crossword.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to dedicate this to [drunktuesdaze](http://drunktuesdaze.tumblr.com). I tried three times, but AO3 wouldn't let me. I tried, Lea. I tried.
> 
> Come say hi to me [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com).


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